Inspired by my readings of Wallace Stevens and recent river walks. I love the way Stevens plays with the sound of language through alliteration, amongst other things. I wanted to try that here. I hope you enjoy it.
Billowing Bronze
The finches fling their flashing flakes of gold
and cut the craggy amber autumn skies;
they mount their perch on evening air and plunge
the rearing river winds that raise the lines
of teasels, set to tremble at the banks;
abandoned to their purple halo dreams,
but brittle, here, where feasting finches seek
the sculpted suns of summer lights in seed.
These regal reapers of the riverside
have come with feathered crowns as black as night;
their faces flame a world of pagan red
and wield the weathered beaks of bone white spears.
My spirit churns their liquid songs in me
that pooled upon the wide and rippling air;
billowing bronze, the teasels brush the breeze
and burn behind my boyhood’s bellowed years.
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